


Burned

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reichenbach, Angst, Gen, Implied Graphic Violence, Major character death - Freeform, Prompt Fill, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock finding himself?, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't escape the truth. He's not the kind of man John Watson deserved as a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=125383873#t125383873)
> 
> NOW EXTENDED - first chapter has become a sort of prologue, so keep that in mind

Of all his observations it’s that one image Sherlock can’t get out of his head. That one memory of John lying slumped against the front stoop at Baker Street, clutching at his stomach helplessly like he might be able to hold it together even as the blood seeps over his hands.

It keeps him up night after night, keeps him sitting at the window staring at the pavement below like a ghost or a gargoyle. It’s paralysing to the point where even though he’s consumed by thoughts of revenge, he can’t make any of them happen.

Until the day he does.

 

Jim’s lip is split, both eyes blackened as he hangs in the shackles. He still smiles though.

He never stops smiling.

Sherlock’s never been ruled by his emotions but right now all he has left is fury and grief, and one’s much more appealing than the other with the bruised and battered Moriarty in front of him.

The problem is nothing seems to work. No matter what lengths of brutality Sherlock goes to (and he knows them all, even a few new ones) Jim just gives that same smile and asks for more.

And even as he begs, even as he pleads Sherlock can’t push aside his rage and listen to that little voice that says he’s only giving Jim what he’s always wanted.

“Don’t you see, Sherly?” he rasps out through broken ribs and lips peeled raw, “You were made for this.”

 

Somewhere, somehow, between the body blows and the pliers and the razor wires and the sleep deprivation Sherlock looks at Jim and stops seeing just the monster or the man. He’s both and neither at the same time; underneath he’s just a boy like Sherlock who needed someone to play with.

He looks down at the blood on his fingers and can’t see the difference between them anymore.

“John wouldn’t have wanted this.” He admits, hands falling by his sides.

“None of us _wanted_ this, Sherly. We simply didn’t have a choice.”


	2. Chapter 2

John headed for the street door, Sherlock’s steps heavy on the landing above him.

“I’ll get a cab, yeah?” he called back over his shoulder.

The doctor opened the door and almost collided with the man standing on the front step. He was so surprised he didn’t initially notice the long blade that sunk into his stomach.

Moriarty grinned up at him wickedly, twisting the knife before wrenching it free. By the time Sherlock had caught up the criminal was backing towards the black car parked on the kerb.

“John?” Sherlock frowned. His gaze drifted over the frozen soldier’s shoulder and spotted Moriarty, the knife dripping blood over his knuckles as he held it up.

“How does your heart feel, Sherlock?” he smirked, climbing in the back of the car.

Sherlock made to push past John and the doctor stumbled, slumping down against the wall. His flatmate only managed a step towards the car before noticing.

“John?”

The blond pawed helplessly at his stomach, the cut streaming blood. There was a pale pink shape that might be his intestines sticking out through the wound. Sherlock spared half a second to glance at the disappearing car before dropping to his knees.

“Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson!”

He stripped off his coat, pressing it against John’s stomach as he propped a hand behind the man’s neck.

“Sherlock...” he blinked vacantly.

“It’s alright, you’re going to be fine. Mrs Hudson!”

“What’s all this carrying on?” she bustled out of her flat.

“Call an ambulance, now!”

She glanced at John and gasped, hurrying back inside. Sherlock tried to maintain the pressure, nostrils flaring.

“It’s no good.” John said quietly.

“Shut up. The ambulance will be here in a minute.”

“Sherlock, I’m a doctor. I know the mortality rates of an injury like this.”

“I’ll call Mycroft – he’ll have the best doctor in London in the operating theatre by the time we reach the hospital.”

“Sherlock!” John snapped.

The detective finally ripped his gaze from the blood staining his hands and looked up.

“Sherlock, it’s alright.”

“Of course it’s not. Nothing about this is alright, you moron!”

“No, it’s okay. It’s better than some of the ways I’ve thought I was gonna go out.”

“You’re not going to die!”

“Yes, I am. And it’s not your fault, Sherlock. You understand? It’s not your...”

He trailed off, face going even paler as his eyes struggled to focus. Sherlock reached down and clasped John’s bloody fingers in his, giving them a squeeze.

“I know.”

He could hear the sirens now but they weren’t going to make it. John gave him a funny half-smile and shuddered, coughing up blood. It trickled from the corners of his mouth as he took a gasping breath and sat back.

“John? John!”

The doctor didn’t stir, eyes staring straight through Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Those things never bothered him in the past but now they made each day stretch into one endless length of immeasurable time, one grey hour after another that he didn’t notice passing. Sherlock was blind for the first time, oblivious to the people moving around him. Jim could walk right in and slit his throat and he’d never make a sound.

Jim. Thoughts of Moriarty, tinged in crimson rage, only made him think of John again, of his blood flowing over the front steps and the stain on Sherlock’s coat he couldn’t throw away. And just like that all his anger and desire for pain turned to ash and he was staring out the window again.

If Moriarty wanted to burn the heart out of him he succeeded. Sherlock felt like a corpse.

 

It was six months before Sherlock came to his senses. Six _months_ of nothing but sitting blankly in his armchair and only eating when Mycroft forced it down his throat. For six months he tasted nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing. But time numbs even the sharpest aches, and quite without his consent Sherlock started to wake up.

He was washing his hands when he happened to glance at the mirror and notice himself. His hair had grown out into a wild tangle, his face half-hidden by an equally gnarled beard. He was gaunt, so much gaunter than before, with deep tired lines around his eyes stained purple like a bruise.

He could almost hear the good doctor clucking his tongue and whinging that Sherlock was incapable of taking care of himself. The thought forced out a hysterical laugh that turned into a whimper, and Sherlock leaned his head against the mirror and cried.

He pulled himself up again and sniffed. This wouldn’t do. He opened the medicine cabinet and fumbled around until he found a razor and shaving cream. There were scissors but he didn’t really trust himself to cut him own hair; his hands were shaking badly enough just squeezing the foam out of the can. He lathered up, the white clinging to his thick dark hair. Sherlock tensed the razor in his fingers and sighed. He was going to fix this. He was going to redeem himself for John.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the easiest thing in the world to sneak into Mycroft’s offices. His brother thought he was still at Baker Street, lost in his grief. He wasn’t expected a cleaned-up Sherlock in a suit that hung off his neglected frame to waltz into Whitehall and direct his feet towards the elder Holmes’ office.

Mycroft hadn’t said if they’d caught Jim or not – or if he had, Sherlock hadn’t been listening. He figured Moriarty would have done as much as possible to keep himself out of the government’s clutches though. If he could get into Mycroft’s laptop he could find either a current location or a time of death.

Anthea was stunned for a second when she saw him, blinking slowly.

“Mr Holmes?”

“Is Mycroft in?” he said with his old casual boredom. It stuck in his throat though, raspy from lack of use.

“He’s at lunch. I can let him know you stopped by-”

“I’ll just wait inside, shall I?”

He gave her that look, the haunted one he’d seen in the mirror, and she didn’t protest. She picked up her phone and he knew she was probably alerting Mycroft, which gave him maybe ten minutes to find what he came for and get out.

He let himself into the office and closed the door, heading straight for the desk. Mycroft would never be so uncouth to leave his computer out where anyone could see it – or steal it – but Sherlock knew him and it was only a moment before he found the device in a second drawer down. He opened it and frowned at the password screen. He could get this. Sherlock’s fingers moved over the keys, ever conscious of time ticking down.

 

Jim climbed out of the car, waiting for Sebastian to walk around and open the front door. The sniper hustled him into the entrance and locked it behind them.

“Stay.” He said quietly, skulking off to check the place over.

Moriarty checked his nails in the half-light of the hallway, huffing impatiently as he waited for the all-clear.

“Right, boss,” Sebastian walked in, reholstering his gun, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Eight sharp, Basher.”

“Course.”

The marksman left and Jim drifted towards the stairs humming softly. He took off his jacket and tie, throwing them over his arm as he headed for his room. The house was dark, quiet. Normally that would drive him mad but he could use the solitude tonight.

He’d hung the clothes back in his closet and was removing his cufflinks when the streetlight from outside struck a bony figure at the side of his vision. Jim stiffened for a second before turning with a smile.

“Sherlock! So nice to see you’re up and about again.”

The dart hit him in the neck and Jim crumpled, head flopping onto the carpet.


	5. Chapter 5

He was woken by a bright light shining on his face, the warmth hot against his eyelids. Jim blinked them open and squinted, looking past the torch to the tall man holding it.

“You’re looking better Sherly. Finally eating again?”

The detective turned off the flashlight and tossed it aside. “I thought it best to regain some muscle mass for this, yes.”

He moved away slightly and Jim could make out the room. It was flaking white plaster, the walls slick with damp and the floor bare stone. Some kind of cellar then, though there was nothing in it but a long table covered in tools and a set of wooden stairs. He was still in his shirt and trousers, shoes gone, arms shackled to the wall above his head. His toes brushed over the cold floor and he grinned.

“Oh my, Sherlock. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You were wrong. About a lot of things.”

“But not about your heart it seems. Tell me, did you hold hands as the light went out of his eyes?”

Sherlock’s hand struck his cheek and Jim giggled even as he reeled. He hung his head as the detective started rolling up his sleeves.

“Oh goodie,” Jim licked the blood where his lip had split, “The show’s about to begin.”

“You won’t be laughing for long.”

“I can hardly wait.”

 

The beating was simple. Sherlock had one of the best working knowledges of anatomy in the country, his hands relentlessly seeking out the places to make Jim hurt without killing him. He punched like a heavyweight boxer, blows making Jim’s head bob back and forth. A rib fractured with a satisfying crunch; both eyes swelled up until they were half-shut. He kicked at Jim’s kneecaps and his ankles and slammed his elbows into the wall, reeling back to catch his breath. He couldn’t be too eager. He might kill the criminal without meaning to. Sherlock rested his hands on his knees, back to Jim, and tried to calm himself.

The laugh made him turn around. It was low, ragged thanks to the bruised ribs but definitely gleeful and possibly insane. Jim was grinning at him with bright eyes Sherlock couldn’t decipher.

“Don’t stop now, darlin’. Daddy wants more.”

His fury curled around the lump in his throat again and he growled.

“This isn’t a game, Jim. I’m going to squeeze as much pain as I can from that twisted mind, and then I’m going to kill you. No winner, no loser, just an ending.”

“Keep telling yourself that, dear. In fact you can tell yourself whatever you like as long as you _don’t stop_.”

There was something mocking and playful in Jim’s smile that said he wanted this, wanted Sherlock to lose control, but the detective couldn’t help it. He’d be careful. He wouldn’t kill Jim before it was right. But he was going to hurt him for every second of John’s life he’d stolen away.

Sherlock picked up a pair of pliers and snapped the ends together.

“Shall we continue?”

“Yes please.”


	6. Chapter 6

He wanted to blindfold Jim so he couldn’t see the razor wire coming but Sherlock had a strange feeling it would only have made the experience more exciting for the consulting criminal. Already he’d bitten his lips raw, begging and pleading for the next pull of the knife or burn of the match. Sherlock slashed the wire across his forearm and Jim gasped, smiling.

“Again Sherlock, again!”

“What in God’s name is wrong with you?” he scoffed in disgust.

“I’m sorry, am I ruining your revenge jollies?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then do it _again!_ ”

He could see the shackles cut deeper into Jim’s wrists as he bounced eagerly, blood spiralling down his arms. Sherlock scowled. He tore off what remained of Jim’s clothes and bundled them into the corner, his wire abandoned on the table as he headed for the stairs.

“Sherly? Sherlock!” Jim yelled, exasperation thick in his voice.

The detective ignored him, heading for the small disused scullery next to the basement stairs. Two buckets of ice sat in the trough, the sides slick with condensation. He carried them downstairs, dropping one roughly as he placed the other at Jim’s feet and shoved his legs in.

Jim squealed at the temperature but kept smiling. Sherlock took a step back and hefted the other bucket.

“Ooooooh yes, do it Sherly. Do it!”

He clenched his jaw and flung the ice over Jim from head to toe, the cold water splashing over his cuts and bruises. The madman immediately started shivering but his face never changed as he watched Sherlock throw the bucket aside and sit on the stairs.

“You’re so _good_ at this! W-w-what a shame you w-were determined to be a do-do-do-gooder. We could ha-ha-have done such w-w-w-wonderful w-w-work.”

 He watched until Jim’s lips were blue and his body quivered so violently the shackles clinked.

 

Sherlock lay on the couch upstairs, arm above his head as he rested sore muscles. He could smell the blood on his shirt, metallic and bitter. It had dried in the creases of his hands, the dark red flakes cracking as he moved. It wouldn’t be long now. He was feeling a little disappointed – perhaps Jim was right. Perhaps his unwelcome lack of reaction was ruining it. He was probably doing it on purpose.

Seized with another wave of fury Sherlock leapt to his feet and stalked towards the basement door. He flung it open, hammering down the steps. The noise was loud even though his earplugs, the vibrations making his tools rattle on the table. Jim hung in his chains with a dreamy expression, almost like he was half-asleep. Maybe his eardrums had burst and he couldn’t hear the din.

Sherlock switched it off, the silence sudden and pronounced. Jim turned his head as the detective took out his earplugs and picked up a thin filleting blade.

“Come to play some more? I missed you.” Jim said, voice too loud. His ears must have been ringing.

“You just don’t care, do you? You really are insane.”

Jim smiled. “That’s such a subjective concept. How can anyone know their reality is the truth or not?”

“Every person’s reality is the truth – for them. Society’s common reality is just an accepted series of truths.”

“Do you know how sexy you look spouting philosophy with a knife in your hand, darlin’? It’s enough to make a man get ideas.”

Sherlock gripped the hilt tighter. “I’ve got plenty of those.”


	7. Chapter 7

Somewhere, somehow, it catches up with him. It slips in when he’s distracted by the ecstatic screams of his prisoner and the slick blood on his hands. Sherlock’s grief starts to overtake his frenzy and he looks up at Jim with different eyes.

The man’s been stripped bare of his pretensions and his armour and his games. Sherlock might have thought this was all part of the act but not anymore. No, there’s too much sincerity in those eyes watching him almost reverently, the tongue licking his dry mouth as he stares hungrily at Sherlock’s knife.

“What happened to you to make you...want this?”

“The usual. Bullying, being surrounded by idiots, being overlooked. You must know what that’s like, Sherlock.”

He cut another deep line in Jim’s thigh and the man twitched, but Sherlock barely noticed. His hands were on autopilot. He followed their movements as they dug into Jim’s hip, his blood splashed up to Sherlock’s elbows and over his chest. A soft hum of disapproval sounded in his head and Sherlock fell back.

“John?”

“Hmm?” Jim leaned forward, “Speak up Sherly boy, I’m a bit deaf now.”

The dead doctor’s judgemental rumble was louder as he stared at the scarlet dripping from his palms, at the multi-coloured mess he’d made of Moriarty. The man was alternating stripes of red, black, blue, purple, yellow and pale skin, his eyes dark and still so merry as he watched Sherlock.

“Don’t stop, honey. It was just getting interesting.”

The detective collapsed to his knees, knife skidding away across the bare floor.

“I’ve ruined everything. Everything good in my life.” Sherlock muttered.

He looked at Jim. Despite the suspicions and insults of people like Donovan or Anderson, there had always been a line before. Whenever he got close to forgetting Mycroft or John had pulled him back, reminding Sherlock he was a good guy instead of just a broken person. He couldn’t say that anymore.

 

The more he watched Jim watching him, the more he started to wake from whatever violent dream he’d been living in. Moriarty wasn’t the problem. Moriarty was gone, dropped at the first bite of the dart. This was just Jim and he couldn’t take away Sherlock’s aches.

“I always thought we were so different,” Sherlock shook his head, “But it seems we have more in common than I realised.”

He dragged himself to his feet. It took a long time, long enough that Jim lost interest and rolled his head back. Sherlock shuffled to the table like a zombie and groped around until he found the small piece of metal. He heard the chains move as Jim sat up, paying attention now. The detective turned, brandishing the key.

“No,” Jim suddenly turned white under the bruises and blood, “No, you were doing so _well_ Sherly.”

“I’m going to give you to Mycroft,” he said calmly as he walked towards the other man, “He’ll have charges to lay, I’m sure.”

“You know that won’t stop me. No court in England could rule against me, Sherlock. I’ll be out on the streets in a day.”

“Probably.”

“Doesn’t that make you _furious_?” he licked his lips, “Doesn’t it make sense to handle justice yourself?”

“This isn’t justice.”

“It’s the closest you’re ever gonna get from me.”

“I can’t.” He said softly, opening himself up to the psychopath in chains.

“I know you can, Sherly. I’ve seen it,” Jim’s hands twitched as if they longed to reach out and stroke the other man’s face, “Just take that knife and drive it straight into my chest.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I...I can’t.”

Jim clenched his jaw, practically spitting through his teeth as he inhaled. “I should have known you would always cling to your precious rules.”

“I don’t think the rules apply to us, do you?”


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft opened his front door to find a bound James Moriarty in a shirt and trousers that were almost ribbons sitting patiently on his stoop.

“What in God’s name...” he glared at the cuts and wounds that covered the Irishman.

“I’m a present,” he smiled, “From your brother.”

“Sherlock?”

“He decided to go easy on me at the last minute. _Such_ a disappointment.”

 

The ground below wavered in his sight, the pavement blurred by tears. Sherlock fisted his hands tighter at his sides.

It was such a _long_ way down. He’d never really considered it before. Four storeys was nothing in the scheme of things, an infant compared to the towers that rose above London’s roofs. But it was so much taller than a person, so much higher than he’d thought.

It didn’t matter. In fact he was grateful for it. He stepped up on the ledge and his hands shook, fingers uncurling themselves without his consent.

His phone buzzed in his pocket but Sherlock didn’t care. He only had eyes for the crimson streaks over his arms, the blotchy patches on his shirt that were so mockingly like those that had marked John’s. If he tried, he could almost forget any time had passed between now and then.

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and leaned forward, letting the wind take him. He didn’t need to see to know when he was lost.


End file.
